


The Adventure Of The Red Circle (1902)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [200]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Civil War, Cock Rings, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Gay Sex, Johnlock - Freeform, LARPing, M/M, Murder, Poisoning, Trains
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-13 15:47:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11763153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A tiny Northamptonshire hamlet is the scene of an unexpected death - but the victim was loathed by just about everybody. As Merrie England is recreated in the twentieth century, shadows of dark deeds come to the surface, and the sins of one generation are paid for by another.





	The Adventure Of The Red Circle (1902)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bookworm4ever81](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookworm4ever81/gifts).



_Foreword: My publishers tell me that I am now so old that the expression 'to sell someone a pup' is falling out of common usage. Similar to the seemingly also moribund phrase ' a pig in a poke', it means (or meant) to sell someone something under false pretences, from when someone would buy a bag (or 'poke') said to contain a pig, only to open it once they had paid to find a puppy. Frankly anyone dumb enough to buy something sight unseen like that deserved the pup!_

I had not thought that we would have the pleasure of meeting Miss Charlotta Bradbury so soon after her inveigling of us into investigating the 'disappearance' of Lady Frances Carfax, but early one February morning – a little too early, if truth be told – she called at Baker Street. Sherlock and I were both in our dressing-gowns, and it served her right that he had not yet had his second coffee of the day, and was therefore less than his usual self (or as I would have said once I was safely out of throwing range, damn nigh impossible!). 

“I may need your help, both of you”, she said, sitting down and looking far too alert for such an unseemly hour. “Good heavens, doctor, you look rough!”

“ _Someone_ had a restless night”, I muttered, glancing across at Sherlock, who at least had the decency to blush. He was always something of an octopus when we slept together, but every so often he would be unable to settle properly, and I would be kept awake whilst he used me as a portable climbing-frame until he finally got comfortable. And unfortunately, my body did not require just the odd cup of coffee or three to put itself to rights, unlike some lucky bastards with blue eyes and impossible hair that I could mention!

“Too much information, doc!” she grinned. “No, I want to know if you gentlemen would accompany out to my nice new home in the country for a spot of crime-solving.”

“What sort of crime?” Sherlock asked, picking up his second coffee.

“None”, she said. “Yet.”

We both looked at her in surprise.

“What sort of crime do you expect to happen?” Sherlock ventured. 

“No idea”, she said. 

“Where might this crime be taking place, then?” I asked, hoping for at least something.

“That I might know”, she said. “Come on, you have looked at things before and just known something was wrong, even before you knew how you knew. That is just the feeling I've got over what might be happening next week.”

“Which is?” Sherlock asked with a yawn. “Sorry.”

“The St. Valentine's Day Massacre - part two!”

+~+~+

It was Monday, February the tenth. Sherlock, Miss Bradbury (she re-iterated her threat of grievous bodily harm to either of us if we ever called her 'Charlotta') and I had gone to Marylebone Station to catch a Great Central Railway train on the recently-opened main line to the Midlands and North. Our destination was somewhere called Redford in the county of Northamptonshire.

“I had a place in Hertfordshire until the start of last year”, she explained, “a village called Puckeridge, but my neighbours there were horrible. And since they had been there since the dinosaurs, I decided to up sticks and move. Luckily I had done a favour for an estate agent only a month back, and he recommended this place that a friend told him about. It is a really cute little bungalow, one of only four houses in the village – and that includes the church!”

“Not a big place, then”, I said.

“That is part of the back-story”, she said. “We change at Brackley for the train down the Reed Valley to Redhampton, the terminus. It's also the largest town in the valley now; there are three other villages; Redwood, and Upper and Nether Redland. I live in Redford, where the two branches of the Reed river meet. It is the history of the place that's behind this, so sorry if I'm boring you.”

“Please continue”, Sherlock smiled. “I am sure that you of all people would never waste breath on unnecessary information.”

“Until the seventeenth century, Redford was the largest place in the area, bigger than Brackley at the time”, she said. “Had a castle and everything. But the villagers went and chose the wrong side in the Civil War. Everywhere else in the valley they were for King Charles, but Redford was for Parliament.”

“The valley is not that far from Edgehill, the first major battle of the war. Both sides sent men to the battle, although the Parliament force from the other villages was larger. I know the history books say the battle was a draw, but the Parliament fellows fell back on London, and the king's men chased them. Anyway, the Royalists came down the valley, and so the story goes, the soldiers who had got to the castle fired at them as they passed by. The King did not want to waste time when he was planning to advance on London and wrap things up, so he ignored the place. Everyone heaved a sigh of relief – but one Mr. Nehemiah Porter, who was the chief landowner in Redhampton, had a long-running feud with the Dowdeswell family who owned Redford. In the middle of winter – St. Valentine's Day – he raised a troop of soldiers and attacked and burnt the place. That was all but the end for Redford. The castle was.... blighted?”

“Slighted”, I corrected. “A polite fiction for rendered inhabitable and unusable.”

“Go on”, Sherlock urged.

“I moved in last March, and I learnt that I'd just missed out on an annual event”, she said. “Every year, a group of people from the valley villages dress up and re-enact the event. As you can guess, the idea of a female soldier raised a few eyebrows, though once I'd promised to pay for several barrels of beer in Redhampton afterwards, suddenly no-one seemed to mind that much.”

“What an _amazing_ coincidence!” I chuckled. Her face grew serious.

“The thing is, the event is this Friday”, she said. “Locally, they call it the St. Valentine's Day Massacre, which is... charming! But lately I have had a bad sort of feeling, as if something was going to happen. I deal with information, not people directly, so this is not my speciality.”

“But it is ours”, Sherlock said. “It sounds most interesting.”

“The group doing the re-enactment is called the Red Circle”, she said, “from the fact that the two branches of the river curve almost back on each other. I do not know just what it is that is making me nervous, but something just feels wrong.”

I could not know then just how justified she was in that feeling.

+~+~+

We duly changed at Brackley to the Reed Valley Railway (which was operated by the Great Central) and a few minutes later alighted from a branch-line train at a small station called Carlington & Blackstock, from where we took a cab. The most surprising thing about Redford, when we reached it after a couple of miles, was that the main road up from Brackley ran through it. The branch-line ran parallel to it, though there was no station. It was as tiny as our host had described; one single cottage opposite a small church with what must be a tiny vicarage attached to to it, a farm track leading to a distant farm, a low, flattened hill which had presumably once supported the castle of which there was nothing but a few stones, and finally Miss Bradbury's house, which I thought surprisingly small. She must have caught my expression.

“I did not want to be rattling around inside some huge barn of a place”, she said. “I wanted somewhere small but well apart, and with good connections to my business in London. Brackley Station is under half an hour from here, fifteen minutes with my driving. Though I may have been sold a pup.”

“Your estate agent lied to you?” I asked. She shook her head.

“Not unless he was psychic”, she said. “A few months back, the government decided to build a new mega-barracks somewhere in the Home Counties. Because of the railway, Redford is one of the places on their list, one of twelve overall. I may have to move again.”

“Twelve to one is good odds”, Sherlock said. 

“True”, she admitted, “and the fact that they might have to build over part of a battlefield may also be a factor. They did some preliminary digging in the area just before they announced the decision, and they found a dead body almost at once. Fortunately it was a battle victim; he had been dead for centuries.”

“So this place was destroyed by the Royalists”, I said, as we pulled to a halt outside Miss Bradbury's house. “And the people driven out, presumably.”

“Old Nehemiah Porter claimed that they were interfering in his getting supplies through to the king's capital at Oxford”, she said, “which was bunkum as he could easily have sent them another way. The records say that he singled out those he could ransom, and told the rest they could burn in their homes or leave. Though I have my doubts on that, as his only Dowdeswell captive just happened to be shot dead whilst trying to escape. Funnily enough, they are still here, at least in the form of the parish priest, the Reverend Nigel. They want to close down his church here, but he is fighting for it.”

“Are the Porters still in the area too?” Sherlock asked.

“Unfortunately yes”, she said with a grimace. “Though like the Dowdeswells, maybe not for much longer. Mr. Janus Streatham-Porter is the last of the line, though he's still young enough to marry and continue it. If anyone would have him, that is. He's as bad as that awful railway director you put in his place in Essex that time, another right insufferable pompous oaf!”

+~+~+

The following day, Sherlock and I went to the re-enactment meeting held in Redhampton. The plan was that everyone would wear period costume as soldiers of the time – the women were supposed to dress as camp followers, but thanks to the barrels of ale, Miss Bradbury was wearing a full soldier costume, which I found somewhat disconcerting – and start out at Brackley. They would then follow the route of the king's army to Redford, surround the village as the soldiers had done in the seventeenth century, hold a minute's silence and then attend a remembrance service in the churchyard before continuing to Redhampton. And the beer!

(A blue eyed mean person says that I have to include Miss Bradbury's suggestion that I dress up as her handmaiden. I of course huffed quite indignantly at such a suggestion, but there was a light in my friend's eyes which suggested that he found the idea... interesting. I would later find out just how interesting....)

Miss Bradbury also introduced us to some of the local people she had told us about. The Reverend Nigel Dowdeswell was a small tired-looking fellow of about fifty years of age, constantly wringing his hands and looking nervous at having to preach to a congregation several dozen times larger than usual. I would not like to call him absent-minded, but I saw him spend five minutes looking for his glasses before someone managed to stop him fretting for long enough to tell him that they were hanging out of his top pocket.

We also met Mr. Janus Streatham-Porter, and I can only comment that if anything, our hostess had underplayed his true awfulness. It was customary at the time for some young men, especially those who had just come of age, to wear what was called a 'majority ring', but this man, who was the wrong side of thirty if he was a day, had two large bracelets, each adorned with a huge majority symbol (the Roman letters XXI). Miss Bradbury, bless her, rescued us after what seemed like an eternity by claiming that there was a telegram for Sherlock, and she needed me to help her with her costume. Never has silence sounded so wonderful!

The other person we met was also quite distinctive. Miss Eunice Pelham worked at a ladies' clothing shop in the nearby town of Towcester, and was passionate about local history. She insisted on relating the whole destruction story to us (in between the inevitable simpers sent in a certain someone's direction!). I usually admire passion for a subject, but she was a little _too_ keen. Miss Bradbury explained later that the lady was in fact a cousin of the Reverend Nigel, her great-grandfather being the latter's grandfather. I silently wished that I had had the foresight to bring ear-plugs for this case!

The day was notable for an incident that arose out of another guest, to whom we were not at that time introduced. Refreshments had been laid on for the club members, and I had loaded up my plate when I noticed Mr. Streatham-Porter talking to a tall patrician gentleman by the doorway. I walked over to Miss Bradbury.

“Who is that?” I asked.

She looked across, and bit her lip.

“ _That_ ”, she said, “is trouble.”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock asked. He had somehow managed to find a cup of coffee, which was strange as I was sure that I had been told only tea was available. Then again, with his charm anything was possible. Miss Bradbury looked around, and sighed in relief.

“He must have gone home”, she said. 

“Who?” I asked, mystified. 

“Reverend Nigel”, she said. “The insufferable pompous oaf is talking to – at - the Bishop of Lamport and Brixworth, whose diocese this is. Pompous oaf wants an extension to the church – including a nice new stained glass window honouring him, of course - in Redhampton, and is pressing the Church to close St. Æthelflæd's in Redford to save money. Knowing him, he would be prepared to offer a large donation if he can have his way.”

I looked across at the two men, and noticed that Miss Pelham was seated not far away from them. The look on her face was frankly alarming.

“Medusa”, I muttered. 

“Family feuds persist in rural areas”, Miss Bradbury remarked. “We had two families in Hertfordshire who had been fighting over a small field since King John, and seven centuries on they were still at it. Time is not so much a great healer in rural areas as a chance for things to fester. I suppose that it was foolish of me to expect here to be any different.”

I was silently glad that Miss Pelham would not be in possession of a weapon for the re-enactment. I for one would not have trusted her with it.

+~+~+

The day of the re-enactment dawned cold and chilly, but Miss Bradbury was uncommonly cheerful.

“My seaweed out the back is as dry as a bone!” she said firmly. “Sunny weather today, Mr. Smith and Dr. Wesson.”

She had not thought it advisable for us to be introduced as ourselves to the locals, in case whoever was planning whatever they were planning decided to stop planning it as a result. I think that was what she said, but I had long ago figured that her train of thought was prone not just to running into sidings, but to turning onto switchbacks, entering passing loops and setting off up a nearby funicular railway! At least she was not expecting us to dress up; I had still not forgotten the truly dreadful experience of the Reigate case, from which someone still had The Photograph.

I saw that smirk!

Sherlock and I rode to Brackley in Miss Bradbury's carriage, whilst she rode on her other horse in full costume. She looked every inch the Cavalier, and the expensive and well-designed outfit meant that one would have had to have got very close to realize that this particular soldier was more than they first appeared. When we reached Brackley, there was the usual milieu of disorganization before everyone finally got to their allotted places, and we headed along the road to Redford and Towcester. A sharply-dressed fellow who was wearing blue rather than the more common red spoke briefly with our hostess, and after he had left we asked her who he was.

“That's Bernie, my estate agent friend” she said. “He's heard unofficially that they're inclining more towards a site in Buckinghamshire for the new camp, rather than Redford. Probably disappointing for him; a development here would make him oodles of cash!”

I looked along the line of soldiers to where Mr. Streatham-Porter was shouting at a man who, presumably, was meant to be his squire. Somehow it did not surprise me in the least that the insufferable pompous oaf had ended up as King Charles the First. I wondered idly if they might make the re-enactment a full one, and cut off his head at the end. Just for reality's sake, of course.

“That's poor Humphrey – Mr. Benfleet – his cousin”, Miss Bradbury said. “You might think he would be a bit nicer to the man who is only a heartbeat away from the estate, but Hump being a mere bank clerk means that he looks down on him. Yet the estate will be his one day, unless the insufferable pompous oaf can find a passing female with poor vision and/or no taste!”

I chuckled.

“Talking of the fairer sexes”, she went on, “my researchers down in London found something interesting on Miss Pelham yesterday.”

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“Apparently she visited the British Museum and asked for the names of some people who could authenticate an ancient document for her”, she said. “And I know that she has been writing up a history of the churches in the Red Valley. She may have found something in the old records.”

“I cannot believe that it could make her dislike Mr. Streatham-Porter any more”, I observed. “Though I am quite certain that she would try!”

+~+~+

It was about three miles to Redford, and it took some considerable time for both the journey and to assemble everyone in a loose ring around the old centre of the place when we finally got there. After a minute's silence for the dead, as many people as could crammed into the churchyard, where a temporary pulpit had been arranged, and the benches set out before it. They had even screened off the traditional family pew at the front.

“I do not believe it!” Miss Bradbury hissed. 

“What?” I whispered back. She gestured to the front.

“The insufferable pompous oaf is plonking himself down in the Dowdeswell family pew”, she hissed back. “Talk about striking a match in a gunpowder factory. If Reverend Nigel is ever going to call down holy fire, it's now!”

To her and our surprise however, the little priest did not seem overly perturbed at this discourtesy. Though I could not but notice that his theme for the sermon was Revelation chapter six, verse ten - 'And they cried with a loud voice, saying, How long, O Lord, holy and true, dost thou not judge and avenge our blood on them that dwell on the earth?' I shuddered. I could almost imagine the village going up in flames, destroyed by the neighbouring landowner under the pretence of wartime 'necessity'. At least most of the people back then had been spared.

I suppose that I should not have been surprised that, once the sermon was over, Mr. Streatham-Porter immediately uncorked his wine-bottle and quaffed a mouthful before even leaving his pew. True, we were not actually inside the church, but it was brazenly disrespectful. That did not surprise me.

Mr. Streatham-Porter subsequently clutching his throat and falling to the floor in agony. I have to admit that yes, _that_ surprised me.

+~+~+

I rushed over to the man, pushing my way through whilst yelling that I was a doctor. At one point I bounced off someone, and looking up, I saw that it was Miss Pelham, but I was more concerned with reaching my patient. She followed me through to the front, and I quickly loosened the man's clothing.

“He has been poisoned!” I said. “Where is the bottle that he was drinking from?”

Someone pointed to where the bottle lay on the ground, its contents having largely emptied out when it was dropped. Sherlock came up and carefully lifted it up in a handkerchief. It was clear that there was nothing I could do for Mr. Streatham-Porter, who was not long for this world. I quickly examined him, and noticed there was a strange smell about his body. I turned to Mr. Benfleet.

“Did Mr. Streatham-Porter wear anything like a cologne today?” I asked. “Or perhaps drink something herbal?”

“He hates all male fragrances”, Mr. Benfleet said firmly. “And he never drinks herbal tea or anything like that.”

The man slumped in my arms, and I laid him gently on the ground. Regardless of how unpleasant he had been in life, a patient of mine had died. I would not let that rest.

“We need to carry him to where he can be examined”, I said. “A cool room would be better. Reverend, could we have him taken into the church?”

I fully expected the priest to say no to the presence of such an ungodly man in his house, but to my surprise (and relief) he nodded. I turned to Miss Bradbury.

“”Perhaps you should continue with the procession”, I said. “We cannot leave everyone standing around in a field all day.”

“I am staying right here”, she said firmly. “I want to know what happened to him.”

+~+~+

My examination of the late Mr. Streatham-Porter yielded little except that he had most definitely been poisoned. Sherlock had stayed with me during the examination, and when I told him my suspicions, he agreed, though I sensed that he knew more than he was saying. I was fairly sure from the smell that the contents had been dosed with aconitum (or monkshood), in a dosage large enough to kill. Which was a problem, because, when the police started questioning people, it emerged that Mr. Streatham-Porter had, in front of witnesses at Redford, shared the contents of the very same bottle with his friend Mr. Beagle, his own lawyer, before taking his seat. And the lawyer, most tiresomely, was not even ill. Damn!

Sherlock, of course, had an idea. 

“I am thinking a trap”, he said. “Unfortunately it may involve a long wait, though I rather hope not, if it catches the person that I expect.”

“Count me in!” Miss Bradbury said, clearly excited. “Where?”

“In the local church”, Sherlock said. “I think that someone will visit Mr. Streatham-Porter tonight, and attempt to remove a critical piece of evidence. That is why I persuaded the local police to leave the body until tomorrow, since it has already been examined by a fully qualified doctor.”

The two of us agreed, and we followed him over to the small church. It had of course been locked by the reverend, but a locked door never stopped Sherlock, and we were inside in under a minute. The body of Mr. Streatham-Porter lay undisturbed on the bench at the back, the other benches having been returned to their normal positions. Sherlock went up to it and sighed unhappily.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I was so hoping that I was wrong”, he said. “Come. We have no business here.”

Now totally puzzled, we followed him out and around to the vicarage, which lay just behind the church. He knocked at the door, and the three of us were admitted. Reverend Nigel welcomed us into his study.

“How may I be of assistance?” he asked politely.

“By admitting your guilt”, Sherlock said calmly. There was a stunned silence all round.

“I am not sure that I understand”, the priest said. Sherlock sighed. 

“I think it only fair to tell you, reverend”, he said quietly, “that after the doctor's examination of the body, I took the precaution of removing the man's collar and sending it to London for official testing. I am sure that the results will show high levels of aconitum on the insides. Only one person had access to the church after we left it there. That person was you. Suspecting you, it was easy for me to lay a dust trap between the body and the connecting door to the vicarage.”

The priest seemed to slump.

“Why?” Sherlock asked.

“I had no choice.”

“What?” I asked. He looked fully at me, and the look in his eyes was such that I involuntarily took a step backwards. This was a man being haunted by the very hounds of Hell.

“Ever since that man started trying to get my church closed down, I kept getting these strange dreams”, he muttered. “I thought that I was just having nightmares and the doctor proscribed some powders, but they kept happening, even more after the surveyors found that dead body. Dozens of people dying in a fire, whilst those around just laughed. So Eunice and I started going through the church records, to see if anything had happened that could explain it.”

He looked up at us, his face a deathly white.

“We found something, all right!” he said. “A sealed confession from one of Mr. Nehemiah Porter's men as to what had really happened that day. The man contracted some disease later in the war, and he returned to the priest here and made his final confession. The official version of what happened that day was rot! They didn't throw the people out of their homes and then burn them; they set a ring of fire around the place and burnt them alive, shooting those who tried to escape. Nehemiah Porter saw a chance to destroy a rival landowner and a rival town, and he grasped it with both his evil hands.”

I stared at him in shock.

“How did you do it?” Sherlock asked quietly.

“I was in charge of costumes, remember?” he said with a hollow laugh. “I knew he planned to change when he got to Brackley, so I coated his collar with poison.”

I suddenly remembered. He had brought in soap and water for me to wash my hands before the examination had started. 

“But the bottle”, I objected. “It contained traces of poison. I tested it!”

“In the confusion of a man dying in a churchyard, it was easy to swap the original for one with monkshood in it”, he said. “I did not know that he had shared it with his friend earlier. I thought that his cousin might be suspected.”

“That was cruel!” Sherlock said sharply. 

“When you have not slept for two months, you stop caring”, the man said dully. He reached across and poured himself a glass of wine. “Either way, now I shall have peace.”

He downed his glass, stood up and smiled strangely. Only for a moment though, because he almost immediately slumped to the floor. I made to move towards him, but Sherlock shook his head.

“He wanted peace”, he said sadly. “He has found it. May the souls of those done to death here all those years ago also find their rest.”

+~+~+

We returned to Miss Bradbury's house for the night, as the local constabulary wanted us to remain until everything was cleared up. I felt my emotions very mixed; the vicar was a killer, yet he had been effectively driven to it by the ghosts of victims past (I had checked with his local doctor, and he had indeed not been sleeping lately). I wondered how I might cope if denied the blessed relief of eight hours in the arms of Morpheus.

And, of course, eight hours in the arms of Sherlock.

+~+~+

The next day, Miss Bradbury thanked us, and drove us to Brackley for the train back to London. We boarded a first-class compartment and both sat back.

“Which side would you have chosen, John?”

I looked up in surprise at the question.

“Pardon?” I asked.

“King or Parliament?” he asked, looking at me quizzically. “If you had lived two and a half centuries ago, and been forced to take sides?”

“King”, I said firmly. “The established order. Charles was not the best of men, but that is the lottery with putting someone in charge. Sometimes you get an Elizabeth, other times you get a Mary the First.”

“I think I would have been for Parliament”, he said. “The rights of the common man, against the tyrannical monarch.”

I looked at him pointedly.

“And if you had been my partner then?” I asked. “Would you have gone against me and still supported Cromwell?”

“Of course”, he smiled. “But I suppose that you would have tried to persuade me otherwise.”

I grinned evilly, stood up in the carriage and pulled down the blinds.

“I believe that I can be very persuasive”, I said, taking off my jacket and unbuttoning my shirt. “And a demonstration is in order. Right now!”

“I would be very committed to Parliament”, Sherlock grinned, undressing himself farm more quickly than me, as usual. He was sitting there wearing only his socks before I was finished, his cock vertical and almost daunting. “Are you going to 'ride' over here and try to convert me?”

I finally got my trousers off, and positioned myself above him. Those leather hand-grips from above the seat-rests were almost certainly never intended to be used for this, but I was able to use them to support my weight whilst he worked me open, using some unguent which, interestingly, he just happened to have had on his person. Though by the time he had three fingers in me, I was past concern, and pretty much past anything else as well. Using that inhuman strength of his, he eased me gently down onto him, and I groaned as the juddering of the train caused him to push around inside of me. 

“Let us see who is right, king or parliament”, he growled. “Whoever comes first loses, obviously.”

And with that the bastard began to attack my prostate as if he was trying to beat it into submission. I could only hold on for the ride – ride, hah! - as I was controlled by my mate and reduced to a quivering wreck, until finally I came with a moan of pleasure that must have been heard by the neighbouring compartments, Thank Heavens for a non-corridor train! 

I reached down to encourage him to follow, then froze.

“You cheater!” I whispered. “You have been wearing a cock-ring!”

“All is fair in love and war”, he grinned back, and twisted his hips, causing me to start growing hard again. I would have complained further, but if this was what losing an argument felt like, I supposed that I could take it like a man.

+~+~+

I did take it like a man. Twice more before we got to London. Thank the Lord that Marylebone Station was so close to Baker Street!

+~+~+

Postscriptum: In one of those twists of Fate, the local bishop did decide to close down the church at Redford, only for the government to change its mind and select the village as the site for its new camp after all. St. Æthelflæd's became the new garrison church for Redford Camp and was actually expanded so Miss Bradbury found that the peace that she had sought was short-lived, which meant that she had to move again – but that is another story.

Somehow, Sherlock managed to purloin one of the costumes from the re-enactment. A handmaiden's costume....

+~+~+

Our next adventure would prove that trying to live two lives is never advisable – and that justice may be delayed, but it is never denied.


End file.
